My Sister, the Serial Killer

by Oyinkan Braithwaite

  “Thank you. It’s a wonder what being conscious can do for one’s health!” He laughs at himself, then stops. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine. What can I help you with, Mr. Yautai?”

  “Please, there’s no need for formalities. Call me Muhtar.”

  “Okay…”

  He stands up and grabs a paper bag off the coffee table; he hands it to me. Popcorn with syrup drizzled all over it. It looks delicious.

  “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “I wanted to. It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

  The hospital does not allow us to accept gifts from patients, but I do not want to offend him by rejecting his attempt at gratitude. I thank him, take the bag and set it to one side.

  “I’ve been thinking some more about my memories, and some things are a little clearer to me,” he begins.

  Honestly, I am too tired for this. I can take only so much in a day. Perhaps he will remember everything I told him, including where the bodies are, and it will all be over.

  “Let’s say for argument’s sake that one knew someone who had committed a gross crime. Someone dear to one. What would one do?” He pauses.

  I sit back in my chair and appraise him. I must choose my words wisely, since I have carelessly given this man the tools he needs to have my sister and me thrown into jail, and I have no idea what his angle is. “One would be duty bound to report it.”

  “One would be, yes, but most of us wouldn’t, would we?”

  “Wouldn’t we?”

  “No, because we are hardwired to protect and remain loyal to the people we love. Besides, no one is innocent in this world. Why, go up to your maternity ward! All those smiling parents and their newborns? Murderers and victims. Every one of them. ‘The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.’ ”

  “That’s quite…” I can’t complete the sentence. The words trouble me.

  “It’s a quote by Jim Morrison. I cannot lay claim to such wisdom.” He continues to suck on the àgbálùmọ̀. He is quiet, waiting for me to speak.

  “Are you going to tell anyone about…this?”

  “I doubt the words of a coma patient hold much water out there.” He gestures with his thumb to the door that separates us from the world outside.

  Neither of us says anything. I focus on slowing down my heart rate. Without my permission, tears run down my face. Muhtar keeps mum. He allows me the time to appreciate that there is someone who knows what I’m dealing with, that there is someone on my side.

  “Muhtar, you know enough to have us put away forever. Why do you keep this secret?” I ask him as I wipe my face dry.

  He sucks on another àgbálùmọ̀ and winces at the sharpness of the flavor.

  “Your sister, I do not know. I hear from your colleagues that she is very lovely, but I have not seen her for myself and so do not care about her. You, I know.” He points to me. “You, I care about.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you. I woke up because of you—your voice calling to me. I still hear you in my dreams…”

  He is waxing lyrical. It feels like I’m in another dream.

  “I’m afraid,” I say in the barest of whispers.

  “Of what?”

  “The guy she is with now…she might…”

  “So, save him.”

  FATHER

  The day before the day it all ended was a Sunday. The sun was merciless.

  All the air conditioners in the house were on full blast, but I could still feel the warmth from outside. Sweat was beading on my forehead. I sat under one of the air conditioners in the upstairs sitting room with no intention of moving. That is, until Ayoola came scrambling up the stairs and found me.

  “Dad has a guest!”

  We leaned over the balcony to spy on the man. The agbádá he wore kept slipping down his arms, so he was constantly pushing it back up again. It was a rich blue and so large that it was near impossible to tell if there was a slim man or a fat man within the yards of fabric. Ayoola pantomimed pushing her own sleeves back up and we sniggered. We were not afraid of our father when he had guests—he was always on his best behavior. We could laugh and play with little fear of retribution. The guest looked up at us and smiled. His face is forever etched in my mind—it was a square, black, much blacker than I am, with teeth so white he had to have kept his dentist on speed dial. I imagined him getting ṣàkì stuck between his back molars and then immediately demanding to be wheeled in for orthodontic surgery. The thought tickled me and I shared it with Ayoola, who laughed out loud. It caught my father’s attention.

  “Korede, Ayoola, come and greet my guest.”

  We trooped down obediently. The guest was already seated, and my mother was offering him delicacy after delicacy. He was important. We knelt down, as was customary, but he waved us back to our feet.

  “I am not that old o!” he cried. He and Father laughed even though we could not see what was funny. My feet were hot and itching, and I wanted to go back to the cool of the air conditioner. I switched from foot to foot, hoping my father would dismiss us so that the men could talk business, but Ayoola was transfixed by the visitor’s cane. It was studded from top to bottom with different colored beads. Its brightness drew her eye and she went closer to examine it.

  The man paused and watched my sister over the rim of his teacup. Seeing her up close, he smiled—but it was not the same smile he had lavished on us earlier.

  “Your daughter is very beautiful.”

  “Really,” my father replied, cocking his head.

  “Very, very lovely.” He moistened his lips. I grabbed Ayoola’s hand and pulled her a couple of steps backward. The man looked like a chief, and when we went to the village for Christmas our maternal grandparents always kept us away from chiefs. Apparently, if a chief saw a girl he liked, he would reach out and touch her with his bejeweled cane and she would become his bride, no matter how many wives the man already had; no matter if the girl in question wanted to be his wife or not.

  “Hey! What you doing?” Ayoola whined. I hushed her. My father shot me a dark look but said nothing. The way the visitor was eyeing her triggered an instinctive fear inside of me. The visitor’s face was moistening with sweat, but even as he wiped his brow with his handkerchief, his eyes did not leave Ayoola’s. I waited for Father to put the man in his place. Instead, Father leaned back and stroked the beard that he took great pains to maintain. He looked at Ayoola, as though seeing her for the first time. He was the one man who never referred to Ayoola’s stunning features. He treated us both exactly the same. I was never given the impression he was even aware of how gorgeous she was.

  Ayoola shifted under his gaze. He rarely looked at us closely, and when he did, it never ended well. She stopped resisting my grip and allowed me to pull her to me. Father redirected his gaze to the chief man. His eyes twinkled.

  “Girls, leave us.”

  We didn’t need to be told twice. We ran out of the main living room and shut the door behind us. Ayoola started running up the stairs, but I pressed my ear against the door.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed. “If he catches us—”

  “Shhhh.” I caught words floating through the door, words like “contract,” “deal,” “girl.” The doors were thick oak, so I couldn’t hear much else. I joined Ayoola on the stairs and we went to my room.

  By the time the sun went down we were out on the balcony, watching the man get into the backseat of his Mercedes and be driven out of our compound. The fear that had been stuck in my throat receded, and I forgot about the incident with the chief man.

  FAMILY

  Muhtar and I are talking, about the blandness of the food here, the coarseness
of the sheets and tall tales of his past students.

  There is a knock and Mohammed enters the room, interrupting us. He mumbles a greeting at me, then beams at Muhtar, greeting him in Hausa, to which Muhtar enthusiastically responds. I did not realize they had made each other’s acquaintance. And I have never seen Mohammed smile so…freely, at someone other than the nurses who fight over him. Their barrage of Hausa relegates me to the position of other and, five minutes in, I decide to leave; but before I have a chance to announce my intentions, there is yet another knock on the door.

  One of Muhtar’s sons comes in, trailed by a fresh-faced girl. I do not know the names of his children—it hasn’t seemed important. But I can tell this is the older one; he is taller and has a full beard. He is thin like his father; they all are, like reeds in the wind. His eyes fall on me. He is probably wondering what a nurse is doing making herself comfortable at his father’s bedside, tracing the rim of an empty cup with her finger.

  Mohammed empties the wastebasket and shuffles out. I stand up.

  “Good morning, Dad.”

  “Good morning…Korede, you are leaving?”

  “You have a guest.” I nod toward his son.

  Muhtar snorts and waves his hand. “Sani, this is Korede, the owner of the voice in my dreams. I’m sure you won’t mind her staying.”

  The son frowns with displeasure. On closer inspection, he does not look as much like his father as I thought. His eyes are small but wide-set, so that he looks permanently surprised. He gives a stiff nod, and I sit back down.

  “Dad, this is Miriam, the girl I want to marry,” he announces. Miriam lowers herself into a tsugunnawa out of respect for the man she hopes will be her father-in-law.

  Muhtar narrows his eyes. “What happened to the last one you brought to meet me?”

  His son sighs. It is a long dramatic sigh. “It didn’t work out, Dad. You’ve been out of it for so long…” I should have left the room when I had a chance.

  “I don’t understand what that means. Hadn’t I already met her parents?”

  Miriam is still kneeling, her right palm cupping her left. The two men seem to have forgotten that she is still here. If this is the first time she is hearing of another woman, it does not seem to register. She glances up at me, her eyes empty. She reminds me of Bunmi. Her face is round, and she is all curves and soft flesh. Her skin is even darker than my own—she comes close to the color black that we are all labeled with. I wonder how old she is.

  “I have changed my mind about her, Dad.”

  “And the money that has been spent?”

  “It’s just money. Isn’t my happiness more important?”

  “This is the madness you tried to pull while I was sick?”

  “Dad, I want to begin the arrangements, and I need you to—”

  “Sani, if you think you are getting a dime from me, you are more foolish than I thought. Miriam, your name is Miriam, abi? Get up. I apologize, but I will not sanction this marriage.” Miriam stumbles to her feet and then goes to stand beside Sani.

  Sani scowls at me, as though I were somehow to blame for this turn of events. I meet his glare with a look of indifference. A man like him could never ruffle my feathers. But Muhtar catches the exchange.

  “Look at me, Sani, not Korede.”

  “Why is she even here? This is a family matter!”

  The truth is, I am asking myself the same question. Why does Muhtar want me here? We both look to him for an answer, but he seems to be in no hurry to provide one.

  “I have said all I intend to say on this matter.”

  Sani grabs Miriam’s hand and spins around, dragging her out of the room with him. Muhtar closes his eyes.

  “Why did you want me to remain here?” I ask.

  “For your strength,” he replies.

  SHEEP

  After I tire of tossing and turning, I decide to go to Ayoola’s room. When we were young, we often slept together, and it always had the effect of calming us both. Together, we were safe.

  She is wearing a long cotton tee and hugging a brown teddy bear. Her knees are bent toward her stomach and she does not stir as I slip into bed beside her. This is no surprise. Ayoola wakes up only when her body has tired of sleeping. She does not dream, she does not snore. She lapses into a coma that even the likes of Muhtar cannot fathom.

  I envy her for this. My body is exhausted, but my mind is working overtime, remembering and plotting and second-guessing. I am more haunted by her actions than she is. We may have escaped punishment, but our hands are no less bloody. We lie in our bed, in relative comfort even as Femi’s body is succumbing to the water and the fish. I am tempted to shake Ayoola awake, but what good would it do? Even if I succeeded in rousing her, she would tell me that it would all be fine and promptly go back to sleep.

  Instead I count—sheep, ducks, chickens, cows, goats, bush rats and corpses. I count them to oblivion.

  FATHER

  Ayoola had a guest. It was the summer holidays, and he had come in the hope of making her his girlfriend before school resumed. I think his name was Ola. I remember he was gangly, with a birthmark that discolored half his face. I remember he could not keep his eyes off Ayoola.

  Father received him well. He was offered drinks and snacks. He was coaxed into talking about himself. He was even shown the knife. As far as Ola was concerned, our father was a generous, attentive host. Even Mum and Ayoola had been fooled by the performance—they were both smiling. But I was on the edge of my seat, my fingernails dug into the upholstery.

  Ola knew better than to tell the father of the girl he wanted to date that he was interested in her, but you could see it in the way he kept glancing at Ayoola, how he angled his body toward her, how he constantly said her name.

  “This boy is a smooth talker o!” Father announced with a chuckle, after Ola had made some well-meaning comment about helping the homeless to find work. “I’m sure you are popular with the ladies.”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir,” he stammered, caught off guard.

  “You like my daughters, eh? They are lovely, eh?” Ola blushed. His eyes darted to Ayoola again. Father’s jaw clenched. I looked around me, but Ayoola and my mother had not noticed. I remember wishing I had taught Ayoola some type of code. I coughed.

  “Pèlé,” Mother told me in her soothing voice. I coughed again. “Go and drink water.” I coughed once more. Nothing.

  Ayoola, follow me, I mouthed, my eyes wide.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Follow me now,” I hissed. She crossed her arms and looked back at Ola. She was enjoying his attention too much to mind me. Father turned his head in my direction and smiled. Then I followed his eyes to the cane.

  The cane lay ten inches above the TV on a specially crafted ledge. And there it stayed all day, every day. My eyes were constantly drawn to it. To the uninitiated, it must have looked like a work of art—a nod to history and culture. It was thick, smooth and marked with intricate carvings.

  The visit passed slowly until Father decided it was over, guiding Ola to the door, telling him to come again and wishing him luck. Then he walked across the silent living room and reached for the cane.

  “Ayoola, come here.” She looked up, saw the cane and trembled. Mother trembled. I trembled. “Are you deaf? I said come here!”

  “But I did not ask him to come,” she whined, instantly understanding what the matter was. “I didn’t invite him.”

  “Please, sir, please,” I whispered. I was already crying. “Please.”

  “Ayoola.” She stepped forward. She had started crying too. “Strip.”

  She removed her dress, button by button. She did not hurry, she fumbled, she cried. But he was patient.

  “Nítorí Ọlọ́run, Kehinde, please. Nítorí Ọlọ́run.” Because of God, Mother begged. Because of God. Ayoola’s dress
fell in a pool at her feet. She was wearing a white training bra and white panties. Even though I was older, I still had no use for a bra. Mother was clinging to Father’s shirt, but he brushed her off. She was never able to stop him.

  I took a bold step forward and took Ayoola’s hand in my own. History had shown me that if you came within reach of the cane, the cane would not distinguish between victim and observer, but I had a feeling Ayoola would not survive the confrontation without me.

  “So, I am sending you to school to sleep around, abi?”

  You hear the sound of a cane before you feel it. It whips the air. She cried out, and I shut my eyes.

  “I am paying all that money for you to be a prostitute?! Answer me na!”

  “No, sir.” We didn’t call him Daddy. We never had. He was not a daddy, at least not in the way the word “daddy” denotes. One could hardly consider him a father. He was the law in our home.

  “You think you are all that, abi? I will teach you who is all that!” He struck her again. This time, the cane grazed me, too. I sucked in my breath.

  “You think this boy cares about you? He just wants what is between your legs. And when he is done he will move on.”

  Pain has a way of sharpening your senses. I can still hear his heavy breathing. He was not a fit man. He quickly tired during a beating, but he had a strong will and a stronger desire to instill discipline. I can still remember the smell of our fear—acidic, metallic, sharper even than the smell of vomit.

  He continued to give his sermon as he wielded his weapon. Ayoola’s skin was light enough that you could see that it was turning red. Because I was not the target, the cane would only occasionally catch me, on my shoulder or ear or the side of my face, but even so, the pain was hard to bear. I could feel Ayoola’s grip on my hand weakening. Her cries had turned into a low whimper. I needed to act. “If you beat her any more, she will scar and people will ask questions!”